ou!"

When the doctor went back to his office, he sat long in his chair in
front of the fire, and thought. The place was the same--the cheerful
fire--the rows of books--the Fathers of Confederation picture on
the wall--and his college group. Everything was the same as it had
been--only himself. Everything in the room was strong, durable, almost
everlasting, able to resist time and wear. He was the only perishable
thing, it seemed.

He wondered how people act when confronted by the ruin of their hopes.
Do they rave and curse and cry aloud? He could not think clearly--his
mind seemed to avoid the real issue and refuse to strike on the sore
place, and he thought of all sorts of other things.

The permanence--the dreadful permanence of everything in the room
seemed to oppress him. "Man is mortal," he said, "his possessions
outlive him every last one of these things is more durable than I am".
The gray wall of the office--so strong and lasting--what chance had
an army of microbes against it--the heavy front door, with its cherry
panels and brass fittings, had no fear of draughts or cold. It had
limitless resistance. The stocky stove, on its four squat legs, could
hold its own and snap its fingers at time. They were all so arrogantly
indestructible, so fearfully permanent--they had no sympathy, no
common meeting ground with him.

A knock sounded on the door, and when he opened it, the station agent
was there, with a long box in his hand.

"It's marked 'Rush,' so I thought I had better shoot it over to you,
Doc," he said.

"Thanks, old man," the Doctor said mechanically, and put the box down
on the table. On a white label, in bright red letters, stood out the
word 'Perishable.'

The word struck him like a blow between the eyes. "Perishable!" Then
here was something to which he might feel akin. He opened the box,
with detached interest. A sweet breath of roses proclaimed the
contents. He had forgotten about sending for them until now--Pearl's
roses for this day--nineteen American Beauties!

He carefully unpacked the wrapping, and held up the sheaf of
loveliness, and just for one moment had the thrill of joy that beauty
had always brought to him. Pearl's roses! The roses, with which he
had hoped to say what was in his heart--here they were, in all their
exquisite loveliness, and ready to carry the words of love and hope
and tenderness--but now ... he had nothing to say ... love and
marriage were not for him!

He sat